


we hold each other

by firstliner



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Boston Bruins, But like only a little bit, Coming Untouched, Deepthroating, Face-Fucking, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling, Light BDSM, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Safe Sane and Consensual, all the bdsm stuff is in the tuukka/pasta part so you can skip it if you want, previously negotiated kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstliner/pseuds/firstliner
Summary: On the brink of elimination after the Game Five loss to the Blues in the Finals, three Bruins find ways to cope with the pressure.





	we hold each other

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever have something you can’t *not* write? that was me with this fic. 
> 
> i’ve been kinda hesitant to write rpf, but like i said; this was something i needed to get out so I think I’m just gonna…lean into the rpf scene. maybe it’ll get me through the offseason, eh? :P 
> 
> sooo yeah i don't really know how to do anything halfway which you probably could have guessed from the tags, so here’s 3.6k of some soft post-loss hurt/comfort smut. …enjoy?
> 
> (“david” in this fic is pasta. this fic is set immediately after scf19 game 5)

 

 

 

> `david`

David can’t remember the last time the locker room was this quiet.

Everyone’s just … they’re just _tired_ , himself included. It has been a _long_ postseason and it has worn down every last one of them to the bone. He glances around and sees the pain splayed across his teammates’ faces. Some of the older guys—Zee, Bergy, Krej—all try to hide it, but David’s known them for long enough now; he knows the way Bergy’s shoulders slant when he’s fighting to hold his media-ready composure, the way Krej’s blank eyes don’t quite match up with the words of encouragement he’s giving to the younger guys.

And then there’s Tuukka.

He’s just as quiet as the rest of them, but he doesn’t look nearly as defeated. There’s a glint in his eyes that says he’s not ready to go down like this and when he sees that look on Tuukka…David almost believes him. Tuukka catches him staring and just tilts his chin up a bit before giving him a small nod and glancing away.

David feels something twist then settle in his stomach and he forces himself to start shucking off his sweat-heavy pads.

  

 

 

> `brandon`

Brandon _aches_. He’d poured everything he had onto the ice and it still hadn’t been enough; they still hadn’t been able to drag a W out of the chaos. They’d been so close—so close Brandon could _taste_ it—but close means nothing.

There’s no second place. There’s no consolation prize. There’s winning the Cup and there’s not winning the Cup. That’s it. It doesn’t matter if the game is pretty or if penalties get missed or if you win by five goals or one; it only matters that your numbers on the scoreboard are higher than your opponents’. That’s it.

But games like this—full of non-calls, where he plays his heart out until there’s nothing left—that it’s hard to remember that the final score is the only thing that matters.

He takes a brief but scalding shower and when he shuffles back to his stall, he’s greeted by a familiar sight.

It’s Backes, dapper as ever in his game-day suit and carefully styled hair, but with a haunted look in his eyes that says he’s taking this loss just about as well as the rest of them. He’s talking with Jake now so Brandon starts to slide back into his clothes, wincing as his ankle twinges when he flexes it.

During the regular season he might have gone to the trainers to get it looked at, but now? He can’t risk it. Can’t risk being cut, can’t risk putting the team down another defenseman going into a Stanley Cup Final elimination game. If Bergy could play with broken ribs and Zee could play with a broken jaw, Brandon can play with an ankle that doesn't feel quite right.

Brandon straightens and there’s a hand pressing into the small of his back. Backes’ cologne washes over him and it takes everything Brandon has not to turn around and press his face into Backes’ neck, curl up into his chest where he knows he’ll feel safe.

Brandon glances over and Backes’ hand slides up to cup at the back of Brandon’s neck. It’s casually possessive and Brandon melts into it.

Neither of them says anything but after a heartbeat, Brandon’s shoulders slump and he lets himself lean into Backes.

It’s not enough, not by a long shot, but it’s _something_ and Brandon will take what he can get.

 

 

 

> `danton`

Bruce walks in and just glances around at the benches for a few moments. Danton’s eyes are downcast—he’s not ready to face his coach’s disappointment. Sure, he hadn’t played as many minutes as most of the other forwards, as many minutes as he’d wanted, but he’d _played_ and he had _still_ come up short. There were no excuses, not for him.

Finally, Bruce speaks. “We’ve been in this situation before, boys. We played two elimination games against Toronto and we’ll play two against St. Louis. Let’s be honest; there were a lot of shit calls tonight, but at the end of the day we came up short. That’s on us. The Blues are out there and they’re playing a physical game, but we’re the better team and we’re gonna show them first in St. Louis and then back at the Garden.

“Go home tonight. Sleep on it. Kiss your wives. Hug your kids. Tomorrow’s a new day and we’re gonna come back fighting.”

There’s a smattering of applause and that seems to break the ice. A couple of people start to talk to each other, though they keep their voices pitched low. Danton’s busy unlacing his skates when someone slides onto the bench next to him, solid and warm.

“You wanna come over tonight?” Sean murmurs, leaning in so that his breath ghosts across Danton’s ear. A shiver shoots down his spine.

“Yeah,” Danton replies, just as quiet.

Sean nods once before getting up and heading over to his own bench. 

 

  

 

> `david`

It’s an unspoken thing. Tuukka heads through the media scrum and David takes his time in the shower and getting dressed. He loiters in his stall, fiddling with his gear bag, but he doesn’t have to wait for long; the press moves from Tuukka to Noel. Tuukka fixes David with a look and David follows him silently out of the locker room.

They’re silent as they get into Tuukka’s car and they’re silent all the way back to Tuukka’s apartment. There’s not so much as the radio to break David from his thoughts.

Only after they’ve keyed into Tuukka’s apartment and toed off their shoes does Tuukka speak. His voice is quiet. “Traffic lights?”

David feels something approaching relief. He needs this. God, he needs this. He nods so fast his head spins.

“I need you to say it, _kulta_.”

“ _Yes_. _Green_.”

Tuukka nods once in assent and his expression shifts. He leads David to his room and pushes him down firmly so he’s kneeling. “Can you stay here for me? Don’t move a muscle.” His hand curls into David’s hair and David’s eyes flutter shut.

“ _Yes_.” David’s voice is a whisper.

Tuukka’s grip twists in David’s hair and he cries out. “Did I say you could speak?” Tuukka asks dispassionately.

David bites back another sob and he shakes his head, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“That’s right,” Tuukka murmurs. His grip loosens in David’s hair and his thumb runs down David’s jaw, the soft touch in sharp contrast to the tug of his hair. “Be a good boy. I’ll be back.”

Tuukka steps back and then out of the room. David can hear him clattering about around the apartment but the longer he kneels the more the sounds blend into each other. Time stretches—it could have been five minutes, it could have been an hour—but then Tuukka is back and brushing a hand through David’s hair, trailing down to tilt his chin up. Everything feels comfortably muted and David is more than content to let himself float.

“So good, so good for me,” Tuukka is saying and it takes David a moment to register the words. “Give me a color, _kulta_. You can speak.”

“Green,” David murmurs. Tuukka’s thumb runs across David’s lower lip and David sucks the tip of it into his mouth.

“Cheap trick,” Tuukka says but his voice is huskier than it was and heat pools in David’s stomach. He takes his hand away and guides David up, methodically stripping off his clothes. The jacket and shirt are tossed to the side and Tuukka’s clever fingers manage to unbutton and shuck off his trousers without so much as brushing his erection.

Once he’s satisfied, Tuukka presses him back and down onto the bed, arranges him just how he wants him, before taking a step away. David makes a small noise in the back of his throat, but then Tuukka is back and he’s holding a pair of silk restraints.

David’s pulse stutters at the sight and he bites his lip. Tuukka’s own lips twitch into a smile. David knows that sometimes he can be read as easily as an open book, but Tuukka’s astute and deliberate recognition of exactly what he needs never fails to leave him breathless.

Tuukka, still fully clothed save for his tie, kneels over David, boxing in David’s hips with his knees. He takes David’s hand and kisses the inside of his wrist before hooking the restraint around it and leaning forward to tie the other side of the stretch of silk to the bed frame. Tuukka repeats the process on the other side and as soon as he leans back, David tests them, breath catching as the silk holds firm.

Tuukka sits back on David’s thighs and his eyes skitter across David’s body—every bruise, every scrape, every aching muscle on display for Tuukka’s unrelenting gaze. His inspection breaks, finally, when he carelessly tugs off his own shirt and tosses it to the ground. Tuukka leans forward and finally— _finally_ —catches David’s mouth with his.

David positively whines into it, the sound only growing as he tugs helplessly on the restraints. Tuukka smiles into David’s mouth and starts pressing kisses down the column of his neck. He pauses to suck a mark into the juncture of David’s neck and shoulder and David gasps.

“I said you can speak,” Tuukka reminds him quietly before kissing messily down David’s chest, pressing soft kisses to every scrape, every bruise.

“Tuukk,” David whines, “Oh, fuck, _fuck_.” His voice climbs an octave when Tuukka’s tongue swirls around a nipple.

Tuukka leans back again and David chases him up, gets tugged sharply by the wrists, and is yanked back down with a whimper. But Tuukka doesn’t go far; he leans over to the bedside table to scrounge through the drawer for lube and tosses it onto the bed once he finds it. Somewhere along the way, Tuukka loses his trousers and underwear.

Finally, mercifully, Tuukka hooks his thumbs in David’s boxer briefs and slides them down and off.

There’s a click and a heartbeat later Tuukka leans forward. He kisses David sweetly just as he presses his first lube-slick finger into him. It’s a delicious contrast and David kisses back with desperation, but Tuukka keeps the kiss soft.

He opens David up carefully, uses more lube than he needs to, and his fingers, long and nimble, curl, pressing into David’s prostate just enough to keep him on edge.

David is a whimpering mess by the time Tuukka pulls his fingers out, so close to coming on Tuukka’s fingers alone that he wants to cry. The restraints are as taut as the rest of his body.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Tuukka murmurs.

He imagines how he must look—pupils blown, mouth slick and swollen and gasping, fresh bruises from Tuukka’s merciless mouth blooming beside ones from the game—and thinks he’d stay like this forever if he could. He never wants to be anything less than beautiful for Tuukka.

When Tuukka presses in it feels like coming home. Tuukka sets a ruthless pace and David keens, arching his hips into Tuukka’s thrusts. “Yeah, yeah, just like that, just— _ah_ ,” David rambles, unable to stop himself once he’s started.

He feels his orgasm simmering just under his skin—all he needs is Tuukka’s hand on his dick and he’ll tip right over the edge—but Tuukka’s hands stay where they are; one on his hip and the other curled around his face, thumb brushing his cheek.

He’s so hard it _hurts_. “Please, please, please, Tuukka, let me—, please, _touch me_.”

Tuukka grunts and his thrusts slow to deeper, more deliberate presses that draw a moan from deep in David’s throat. “You can hold out a bit longer for me, can’t you, _kulta_?” Tuukka croons and David sobs.

David rides on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. Tuukka had shifted so that he’s slamming into David’s prostate with every thrust and it’s too much, _too much_ —

Before he knows what’s happening, his orgasm is torn from him, come splattering from his untouched dick onto his bare stomach. David literally sees stars.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Tuukka curses. Distantly, David feels him pull out and then he feels the warm splatter of Tuukka’s come joining the mess on his stomach. Then there’s a damp washcloth washing him clean and finally, Tuukka collapses next to him, long fingers curling possessively around David’s waist and tugging him close so their foreheads are touching.

“You’re going to do better on Sunday. You’re going to score for me,” Tuukka says.

And he says it with such certainty that David believes him.

 

 

 

> `brandon`

Backes’ hands don’t leave Brandon. One presses to the small of his back when they’re walking, then rests on his knee on the car ride home, then curls around the back of his neck while he fumbles with his keys in front of his door.

As soon as they’re inside Brandon turns sharply and Backes is already waiting, arms outstretched and tugging Brandon close.

Brandon finally does what he’s been wanting to do since the locker room—he curls his hands in the back of Backes’ dress shirt and buries his nose in the side of Backes’ neck.

Backes makes a small hushing noise and his big hands rub Brandon’s back in comforting circles. When did Brandon’s eyes get so wet? He just buries his face further into Backes’ neck.

Backes isn’t as tall as Brandon is—no one is, except Zee, and Brandon can’t even _imagine_ hugging Zee like this—but he’s close enough that the position doesn’t strain his neck.

Brandon doesn’t know how long they stand there, but after a while, Backes speaks up, quietly. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah? Long day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Brandon says but his voice is shaky. He pulls back, reluctant, and Backes presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Brandon’s mouth.

Backes leads the way to the bedroom, but Brandon is plastered to his back, arms curled around Backes’ waist. Once they’re there, Backes turns in the cage of Brandon’s arms and closes the distance between them to kiss him gently.

“Let me take care of you,” Backes murmurs against Brandon’s mouth and Brandon just kisses him over and over and over.

Backes takes their clothes off carefully, kissing Brandon after he undoes each button. It makes for a slow undressing process but by the end of it Brandon is all but hanging off of Backes, lips tingling, hair mussed, and skin buzzing for more.

And Backes gives it to him: runs his palms up and down Brandon’s back; curls his fingers around his waist, into his hair; kisses Brandon until he’s dizzy with it.

They end up on the bed, Brandon on his back and Backes looming over him. The kisses exchanged grow breathier with each grind of the hips and it’s not long before Backes is licking his palm and reaching down to grip Brandon’s dick by the shaft. He gives it a few light, experimental pumps, before starting to jerk him off in earnest.

There’s no teasing, not tonight; just the rough slide of skin on skin, softened by spit and precome and the press of Backes’ lips against his.

It’s soft and gentle and perfect and Brandon comes with Backes’ name a sigh on his lips.

Once he’s come back to himself a bit, Brandon makes an attempt to bring his hand to Backes’ dick, but Backes bats him away. A few minutes later, Backes’ come joins his own—tacky and cooling—on his abdomen.

A tissue takes care of most of the mess and Brandon is already halfway unconscious when Backes curls around him, tugging him close and burying his nose in Brandon’s hair.

Brandon falls asleep with the scent of Backes’ cologne and the knowledge that tomorrow, he’ll do better.

He has to.

 

  

 

> `danton`

“That fucking sucked, man,” Sean says. He turns the key in the ignition and the car rumbles off.

Neither of them moves and Danton listens to the tick of the cooling engine for a few moments. “Yeah,” Danton says finally.

They click off their seatbelts and make their way up to Sean’s apartment.

“Coach should have played you more.”

Danton worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “You say that every game.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s true every game.”

Danton huffs and unlocks Sean’s front door.

“It’s true,” Sean says again as he tosses his shoes haphazardly to the pad beside the door.

“Maybe,” Danton allows. He doesn’t have the heart to argue one way or the other.

Sean seems to, though. “Not _maybe_ ,” he says hotly. He hooks Danton’s wrist so he can’t shuffle away. Danton blinks up at him. “You’re playing like a first-liner—hell; you’re playing _better_ than our first line most nights—and you’re getting, what, under ten minutes? It’s not— it’s not _right_.”

Danton shrugs. “I just have to be…better,” he mumbles, ducking his head.

Sean’s fingers tilt Danton’s chin up and instead of talking, Sean presses his lips to Danton’s and it’s… _oh_.

The kiss starts messy and gets desperate fast. It’s a miracle they don’t trip over their own feet, but Sean maneuvers them so he has Danton’s back flush against a wall and is grinding his thigh into Danton’s crotch. The throbbing heat from his groin emanates through his entire body.

“You are so fucking good at hockey,” Sean breathes into Danton’s open mouth and Danton shivers. He keeps talking, between kisses. “You’re one of the best— _ah_ —one of the best I’ve ever played with and— and if Coach can’t see that it’s ‘cause he’s fuckin’ blind and _oh, fuck, Danny_ —“

Danton had drawn out that last one by simultaneously snaking one hand between them to palm at Sean’s erection and setting his teeth lightly into the curve of Sean’s neck.

Sean’s grip tightens in Danton’s hair and he tugs his head back up to crush their lips together again.

“What do you want?” he murmurs breathily.

Danton shivers. “I wanna blow you.”

“Yeah—shit, yeah, okay.”

Sean steps back enough for them to swap positions and Danton falls to his knees. The carpet dulls the thump a bit, but the ache in his knees will be indistinguishable from the aches of the game.

Sean’s fingers curl through Danton’s hair as Danton shoves down Sean’s trousers and underwear just enough to afford him access.

He leans forward, peppering kisses to the insides of Sean’s thighs before mouthing along Sean’s shaft and pressing little kisses to the head of his dick. A bead of pre-come forms and Danton licks it off. Sean is already all the way hard so Danton doesn’t have to help him along; just tease him a bit so he’s even more desperate for it.

Sean remains admirably still through it all, but his fingers tighten in Danton’s hair when Danton sucks him in the first time and Danton can _see_ how much Sean is holding himself back.

It takes Danton a few moments to grow accustomed to Sean’s size and weight in his mouth but once he does, he pops off wetly. He looks up at Sean through hooded lashes and absently wipes away some of the spit dribbling from his chin. “You can fuck my face. I want you to.”

“ _Christ_ , Danny.”

Danton hums and swallows Sean back down but lets Sean do the work this time; lets him snap shuddering hips shallowly into Danton’s mouth and the hand Danton keeps at his base. After taking a moment to breathe, Danton shifts and, carefully conscious of his gag reflex, swallows him down deeper.

The moan he draws out of Sean when he swallows around his dick is worth every ounce of effort.

Danton has to take more breaks to breathe, but he swallows Sean all the way down every time.

When Sean comes, it’s with a shout and an aborted thrust deep into Danton’s throat.

Danton knows he looks like a mess (there’s spit smeared across his mouth and chin and tears streaked down his cheeks) but Sean kisses him like he’s the prettiest thing on earth and when Sean—strong, beautiful, perfect Sean—kisses him like that, Danton thinks he might be worth something.

It doesn’t take much, just a few strokes and some drawn out kisses and Danton is following Sean over the edge.

Afterward, when they’re lying in bed sharing sleepy kisses that never seem to end, Danton murmurs: “I’ll do better.”

Sean kisses him long and deep. “No,” he rasps once be pulls back. “You’ll do your best, like you always do, and your best is always good enough.”

 

 

 

> `all`

The locker room is buzzing.

This is it. This is the Cup.

The bite marks on David’s shoulders are barely hidden beneath the black of his compression shirt. He is grounded, present.

Brandon’s chin is high and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, towering over everyone except Zee in his skates. His ankle hardly twinges. He is ready for anything.

Danton meets Sean’s gaze and dips his head. No matter what Sean said about doing his best, Danton is going to do _better_. He is prepared to do whatever it takes.

There’s an uptick in the roar of the crowd and a preternatural calm settles across the team.

There are sixty minutes of hockey ahead of them.

Sixty minutes between them and game seven, a hundred and twenty between them the Stanley.

They’ve been here before; who knows how long it will take them to get here again?

This is the game of their lives.

They’re going to make it count.

**Author's Note:**

> so far the hardest part about writing bruins fic is the fact that there are three fuckin davids LMAO


End file.
